“Yes, Tribune,” Andros said and watched the tribune march up the two steps to his cabin door. Andros was as superstitious as old men of the sea came, and he could only shake his head. This doesn’t bode well, he thought as the tribune shut the door behind him. Not well at all.
IV
For the better part of two days Athanasius lay on his hammock staring at the ceiling, contemplating his situation and how he was utterly alone in this world. The sad fact was that he had nowhere to hide—not Rome, not home in Greece, and not even the Dei. At this point he had no choice but to use the cover he had as an interrogator to visit the last apostle John in his prison on the island of Patmos.
But he would not be asking the last apostle to help him find refuge within the underground Christian movement as Marcus had anticipated back in Rome. No, he would break the old man out under the guise of a prisoner transfer to Ephesus for a trial before the governor. He could think of nothing better to drive Domitian insane than to make John vanish from custody and magically appear in the streets of Ephesus, publicly discrediting the Dei. The truth would destroy Domitian’s lie to the Christians and expose the false accusations that Athanasius of Athens was Chiron.
Of course, the Romans could quickly kill him and John, but the damage would have been done. And if Athanasius could stay alive long enough—that is, outlive Domitian—there was yet hope he could one day return to Rome, reunite with Helena and wreak vengeance on his turncoat rival Ludlumus.
But what if John balked? There was always that remote possibility. In that case, Athanasius would have to persuade him in his own vernacular. To prepare for his visit with the last apostle, he decided it best to study what the apostle wrote.
So on his third day after fleeing Corinth, Athanasius dug out the scrolls of Christian scripture from Chiron’s trunk. For several days he sat at his cabin’s desk, studying the collected gospels, letters and Book of Revelation, pausing only to take meals at his desk, sleep in his hammock and relieve himself in the nearest latrine at the stern—an empty amphora, once filled with something else, that drained to the bilge at the bottom of the ship.
It didn’t take him long to see why The Way had so spooked Rome: According to the “good news,” the only sacrifice to God that the Christian superstition required had already been made in this man Jesus. And the only religious sacraments he could find—communion and baptism—were not requirements of the faith but symbols of remembrance. They were certainly a far cry from the urban legends in Rome of drinking blood and drowning people.
As for money, Jesus didn’t seem to bother with it, except to drive out moneychangers at the temple in Jerusalem who forced people to pay to pray. He also offended his rich followers by telling them their money would not get them into heaven and to give it away to the poor, not to the temple or even his organization. It was this kind of thinking that apparently so set off his treasurer Judas, who later betrayed him.
All this so they couldn’t boast of their charity to God.
Well, Athanasius concluded, without sacrifice or money involved, Christianity could not be defined as a religion at all. Indeed, it was antithetical to everything the gods of Rome demanded for survival.
Most galling of all, Jesus was quoted as saying that there would be surprises in heaven. Not everybody who used his name on earth would be granted admission. Meanwhile, he said that others who had never heard of him would be welcomed.
Athanasius now understood why so many disciples deserted Jesus toward the end of his life, and he could see why he would too. He especially took issue with the entire deus ex machina return of Jesus at the end of history.
Believing in Jesus, let alone waiting for him to come back, wasn’t going to get him out of his mess. Only action.
There was a knock at the door. “Enter.”
The steward who had replaced Galen in serving him walked in. He was the young, peppy anti-Galen. “Tribune,” he said brightly, even as his knees practically knocked together in terror. “The captain wanted you to know we’ve spotted Patmos.”
Athanasius went up to the deck to get a glimpse. It was just before sunrise, and the dark cliffs of the island rose from the horizon like a jagged rock jutting up from the sea. As they rounded a cape, Athanasius saw a small white harbor nestled at the foot of the gloomy mountain.
Somewhere in that mountain was a cave, he thought, and inside that cave a man who claimed to have seen the end of the world.
A voice beside him said, “Tribune, are you sure you don’t want to skip this excursion?”
This time it was the centurion who had come to converse in private with him.
“Now why would I want to do that, Centurion?”
“My men are anxious to get to Ephesus. And the oarsmen, sailors and marines aboard are anxious. They don’t like the thought of anchoring off an island prison.”
“Perhaps they’ve done something to merit such fears?”
“Nothing, Tribune. Nothing at all. But you know men of the sea. They are a superstitious lot. The end of the world was revealed on this island.”
“Only if you’re superstitious, Centurion. I am not. Tell the captain to take us in, or prepare to explain to Caesar why you chose to defy the will of Rome.”
“At your orders, Tribune,” he said and left quickly.
The Pegasus was too big a ship for the tiny harbor, so it had to anchor some ways off in deeper waters. The centurion and two officers took Athanasius in on a smaller boat. On the way in, Athanasius couldn’t help but notice another ship, rather sizable but small enough to anchor in the harbor. The name painted on the stern was Sea Nymph, and it flew an Egyptian flag. It had the forecastle and stern house for dignitaries, but only one row of oars to support the sails. Something about it seemed off.
The centurion must have seen him staring. “A floating opium den and whorehouse from Alexandria, here to entertain the garrison. Our timing was fortunate.”
Indeed, it was. Athanasius could use such a distraction with the garrison while he extricated John. The oarsmen of his little boat seemed to put their backs into it, eager to reach the island now that it offered more than prisoners and prophets of doom.
“Your men will have to wait until Ephesus, Centurion. I won’t be long. We have a prisoner to transfer.”
Athanasius could feel the wind taken out of his two rowers, their disappointment palpable. “Such is life,” he told them sternly, knowing it all too well.
The officers tied up in the harbor, and Athanasius and the centurion headed up the stone quay, passing the whitewashed barracks toward the square, where there was some commotion.
Athanasius reached the edge of the square and saw a prisoner tied to a post, surrounded by a small group of soldiers. The island’s commanding officer—and de facto prison warden—was dressed in full regalia, minus a helmet, perhaps to impress the whores watching from the deck of their ship.
The commander snapped a long whip on the prisoner’s battered back, leaving a deep red stripe among several others. The prisoner screamed in agony. The soldiers jeered. It appeared to Athanasius this was something of an entertainment between the rounds of real fun aboard the floating pleasure barge.
“Commander?” Athanasius asked aloud.
“Sextus Calpurnius Barbatio,” the commander said, irked by this break in his rhythm. Then seeing the tribune rankings, Barbatio snapped to attention. “Tribune, sir. To what do we owe this visit? Surely you must understand that my men get first priority with the Sea Nymph. Your men will have to wait their turn. I’m sure you’ll understand.”
Athanasius wordlessly handed over his imperial order with Caesar’s seal to the commander, who gave it a glance and then, apparently due to poor eyesight, handed it to his aide to read to him. The aide did so in a low voice as Barbatio listened with a stone face.